Charles Burchfield, Journals, July 28, 1914

After supper start out for a walk, simply to see the close of day, while surround by nature.

The wind is abating gradually but it has left the air in crystalline state + all things sparkle

Observe robin blackbird + quail in wheat stubble at tree.

Concrete knowledge of frog-pond.  Soon will be gone.  When the sidewalk melts into a path, serves as introduction to Frog-pond.  Formerly a hedge of tall locusts - blackberry brambles separated it from townward views thus rendering it partially secluded; now this protection has been razed, tho the locust “bushes” that have sprung up have in a measure healed the scar.  The pond no longer continues now thru the summer; is an early spring rain pond which these over, disappears. Overgrown with raw-bladed grass, golden rod, cat-tails + one of two butterfly weeds remnants of a once flourishing colony.

Where the path leads up over a slight roll in the ground we come upon a tiny locust grove with a vanguard of large leaved poplars; The underbrush, once so dense + wild has been leveled and now all that remains are the shoots of locusts + elderberries. Between the path + hedge is a patch of blackberries – a new growth.

Song of katydids – a steady sound like the sewing machine in its constant rhythm.

Climbing a slight roll in the ground come to a stile cutting the snaky hedge in two, and aids one to the broad pasture here, thru which the path runs to a farther corner.

 A pasture-field is an oasis in a desert of cultivation.

 The cows are browsing their way eastward.

The wind continues still + grows colder, without the sun to temper it.  I like to imagine that it has come from the north pole, and has traveled south to us, bringing a little of everything it passed over on its way down – a breath from the Great Lakes.

The sun has just set and the world is turned to yellow.

The flock of birds.  An irregular flight.  A beautiful sight – their rising + falling twinkling bodies.  A treat to watch them out of sight   Now we lose them + again we see them as specs + again lose them and even after they finally disappear, our imagination makes us still see shapes in the sky.

It is not easy to travel away from the sunset.

Here is harmony of music – the rustling of leaves, the roaring sound in our ears + the chorus of Katydids.

In fancy I hear bird calls on all sides but on listening close can hear nothing.  Oh there – clearly comes the songsparrow’s song + yet another.  And the plaintive calls of kill-deers.

Cross pasture-field saunteringly.  The yellow light becomes stronger + absorbs our very soul.  And so I squat upon a huge boulder and sit dreaming into the yellow.  It is another world.  Two elms domineering the landscape have ceased to be elms.  The yellow glow, curling around each leaf blends it into the sky + the breeze stirring the foliage turns to fine feathery stuff.  A bat pursues its silken flight in irregular circles, searching for food.

Killdeer wails.

The Katydid chorus is continual but unnoticed.  For minutes we hear it subconsciously + then all at once particular attention is called to it + its seems as tho it were just commencing.

The yellow glow is fading turning to deep orange.  The elms look like some beings black as they are.

Less noticeable is the pulsation of crickets.

Leaving stone, I ascend lane to Locust Grove and after some hesitation lie flat on my back under gigantic elm + find that at last I am absolutely alone.

 True there are various sights and sounds, but they are in harmony with nature and are heard only as pauses come in my  thoughts.  Chewinks sings twice.  Overhead the wind stirs the topmost branches of the lacy elm.  My ear close to the ground doubtless in the pasture separating Bentley’s + Farqhuar’s.  It is a remote sound + suggests mystery.  The minds eye can see a colt prancing over the meadow flush with the ecstacy of life.  Again the ear catches the periodical puffing of some locomotive, coming at regular intervals.  Again killdeers start up with their wailing cry as tho suddenly disturb by some enemy.  The picturesque locusts from a striking screen especially in the west where still glows the light of day.  Day dies hard. 

These were not a jar – in fact they stirred ones thoughts to action.  Alone – what a divine joy it is to be alone for once.

And so I lay, oblivious to time thinking.  And at times I seemed on the point of learning why this life was, and grasping it, lost it, as when pursuing a butterfly, a little anxious, we swoop with a cap before we are quite in reach + the startled butterfly darts up and away out of sight over the tree-tops.

Once, when I had raised on my elbow at some slight twig cracking, I discovered the moonlight was enough to make a shadow, tho the moon had not yet attained to the first quarter.  Tree shadows glided over the grassy earth into darkness.

I finally arise + slowly saunter homewards. The light still glows in the northwest.  I whistle Schubert’s Serenade + Ave Maria softly to myself.  These two compositions somehow agree with woods + are excellent for meditation.

Charles E. Burchfield,  July 28, 1914